


The Divine Stubbornness of Mortals

by IraBragi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (and it causes him all sorts of problems... like returning from the dead), M/M, Mycroft is so much more than just the British government, Rosie is there but no Mary, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock falls... and then it gets complicated, Very happy ending, all the different ways you can fall, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 16:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15100190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IraBragi/pseuds/IraBragi
Summary: “I will burn the heart out of you.“I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.”“But we both know that's not quite true.”





	The Divine Stubbornness of Mortals

_      “I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I. O. U.” _

     Of course, Sherlock fell for it; the thrall woven by the shadow-master of crime, the challenge of the self-crowned king.  Even without the threats, even if John hadn't looked across the dimly lit pool and shouted at him to  _ run _ , even if innocent bystanders had never been harmed, he would still have played.  Curiosity, ego, or insanity, the end the result was all the same.

_      “That’s your weakness. You always want everything to be clever.” _

     So Sherlock danced with the brilliant madman, the monster-with-a-thousand-tongues.  They baited each other up and down the busy streets and dark London alleyways. And for the first time Sherlock learned what it meant to match wits with someone sharp enough to cut him.

     Leading the dance and dancing on the puppeteer's strings could both feel so much like flying.  Flying higher and higher until you lost track of which way was up. By the time he saw the truth that everyone had been telling him all along, it was far too late.  

     The possibility of defeat did not shock Sherlock.  As reckless as he was, he had always understood that he  _ could  _ lose.  Knowing that there was the possibility (however slim) for being bested was what made the game worthwhile.  No, the piece of the puzzle that he missed (or perhaps wilfully ignored) how much he to  _ to  _ lose. 

     He fought all the way to the top of St. Barts.

_      “Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims.” _

     There had to be a way out.  There always had been before.  He simply had to be smarter…

     In the end there was.

_      “Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell, I shall not disappoint you.” _

     Moriarty scoffed at that.  (Men like him always sounded the most sure when they  weren’t. Even after everything it still draws Sherlock in, like a shark to blood.)  He stands taller, leans forward. There are a thousand options in his mind, so many ways this could end, most of them what John would call “a bit not good.”  But there is no John up here, only... 

_      “Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.”  _

     No angel would have ever played this game.

_      “I will burn the heart out of you.” _

     The gun goes off.  Moriarty falls.

     The gun goes off.  

_      “I will burn the heart out of you.” _

     The gun goes off.

     John is shouting, pleading.

     Sherlock’s mind is blank, a perfect field of snow.  

     The game is over.  The king has been sacrificed to secure the queen.  

_      “I will burn the heart out of you.” _

     There is no choice.

     Maybe there never was.

     Sherlock steps forward.

     Sherlock falls.

     Sherlock falls and as the wind rushes past him, he opens his eyes.  One last look, he thinks.

     Only he’s falling, and falling, and falling, and suddenly his eyes are open and he he can’t see London’s drab colors any more.  Instead there are lines, an ornate web stretching out in all directions around him. Delicate filigree of spun silk, points of contact between udderly dispert parts.  The lines reach out around him,  _ through  _ him.  They… are him… It turns out that falling takes a long time.  So Sherlock does what he always has done; he observes. 

     He watches Mrs. Hudson, she is older and greyer but still making tea and humming to herself.  There is a skull on her mantle now, it looks quite out of place with her floral curtains. She looks over to her quiet companion with a sigh.

     “I always said you deserved a Christian burial but, well, we both know he wasn’t much for that sort of thing.  Still he wasn’t wrong, on the whole, you do make a good listener.”

     Her tea has gone cold and she grimaces at the taste, pushes the cup away on the coffee table, and glances at the ceiling pensively.

     “It’s too quiet up there you know.  I never thought I’d miss the ruckus, the violin at all hours, and such but,” she drifts off into silence for a long time then adds, “I hope he knows how many he helped.  Wherever he ended up, I hope he knows that.” 

     With a decided thump she sets her cane against the floor, (when did Mrs. Hudson start using a cane?) pushes herself out of the sofa, and moves toward the kitchen.  Presumably to make herself another cuppa.

 

     A new scene.  He sees Lestrade’s entire career pulled to pieces after his favorite consulting detective is denounced as a fraud.  They threaten to take away Lestrade’s badge and he watches the man refuse to let the rest of his team go down with him.

     “Working with Sherlock Holmes was my decision and mine alone.  Detectives Donivine and Anderson have both registered numerous complaints on that matter and I overruled them each time.”  

     Sherlock watched him square his shoulders and open his mouth again.

     “Complaints that I would still overrule if given the chance to do it again.  We saved lives by working with Holmes and whatever else the man has been accused of nothing will erase that fact.” 

     They promote Sally Donivine to take Lestrade’s place.  Sherlock supposes that there were worse people - for example they could have promoted Anderson.

 

     Colors and voices warp and blend together. The images becoming more disjointed. 

     Greg moving on with his life, marrying a nice woman and getting fat…  

     Then Greg walking down the street clearly intoxicated.  Yelling into his phone (ex wife hadn't let him see the children in a month, behind on his rent, third bender this week.)  Saw him throwing the phone in anger, too distracted to notice the car until it's too late... 

     A shift.  Now he is walking down the road but sober this time…  Getting into a black car and talking with a self important fool holding an umbrella.  Flash forward and now Greg is, OH GOD WHAT HORROR IS THIS? Sherlock is sure that he has never committed any sin heinous enough to warrant this hell… ex-detective Inspector Lestrade is sitting in a car and  _ kissing  _ said self important fool.  Oh god, delete, DELETE!

 

     Sherlock pushes against the threads and the view changes. Now he is in the living room at Baker Street and the sounds of gut wrenching sobbing echo from the kitchen.  It cuts through Sherlock, regret and self-loathing holding him in place even more effectively than his less-than-corporeal state. It’s the sound of a crash, quickly followed by a slurred cures that pushes him into action.  It takes all his willpower but he turns, moves into the flat’s kitchen.

     There is a mug on the floor, lying in pieces, (“that one is John’s favorite, I wonder how much it will cost to find another on ebay…”) but even as the thought forms he realizes that John Watson doesn't intend to need tea mugs any more.

     “Up your’s Mycroft.  Thought you could take away my gun did you?” The voice wobbles, his lips are turning a terrifying shade of blue.  “Forrr, fffforgot I’m a bloody doc..doctor…. still know... code... Bart’s.” John’s voice trails off. 

     Being less-than-alive makes is impossible to run to your friend, to shout for help, to scream, or phone 999 or any of the things that Sherlock tries desperately to do.  He stands watching over the body for what seems like a long time after that. Tears streak down his face, it seems that he can still cry. The thought occurs to him that perhaps this is hell - this is his fitting punishment.  He hopes numbly that that means that this is not real, that John is alive and safe somewhere. The tears still won’t stop.

     The room changes, he’s back in Mrs. Hudson’s flat.  She is still leaning on the cane but this time there is somewhere there with her.  Sherlock’s heart spasms then restarts when he sees John sitting on the hideous floral couch.  Cradled in his arms is a tiny child. Sherlock looks John over (no ring on his hand, dark circles under his eyes, dried baby formula on his jumper… and he has no idea what it all means.)  But John is smiling as he rocks the child and Mrs. Hudson flutters about the room.

     “... been too quiet by half!  And while I’m not your housekeeper, I think I could help with this little angel from time to time.” (Her besotted smile promises far more.)  “Will you change her name?”

     John looks like he has nodded off a bit but quickly rouses and shakes his head as if to clear it.  “Well her name was already Watson, Clara never changed back after she and Harry... but I’m thinking about giving her a middle name” He pauses and looks over at Mrs. Hudson almost shyly, “Well, I was thinking, Sherlock  _ is  _ a girl’s name.”

     Sherlock feels the tears welling up again.  He thinks dimly that maybe instead of bleeding out he will cry himself dry.

     There is more after that.  Good things and bad. The people who somehow made up his life without him ever quite noticing.  Eventually he closes his eyes and when he opens them again he is in 221B in his old chair. Across from him sits Mycroft.      

 

     “So what is this then?  The afterlife? Don’t tell me, I’m a god and oh look, you’re still fat.”

     Mycroft’s raised eyebrow managed to convey both complete disdain and more that bit of superior amusement.

     “A God brother?  Really, I expected more than such egotistical drivel even from you.”  The moment stretched, comforting in its familiarity, until the smirk faded and was replaced with a strange intensity. 

     “If you must put words to it, what you are and what this place is, the closest one is perhaps nexus. A connector, a point of convergence. Perhaps even a point of grace, were you inclined to indulge in such florid romanticism.  

     You have spent your whole life understanding that there are  _ complexities  _ in this world that most fools lony dimly grasp at.  What you perhaps did not allow yourself to appreciate it that there are also many things that work to… influence… aspects of that complexity.  I, and by extension you my dear brother, are two such influences. To put it more succinctly, you are currently the through point in a great many tales and when such a point falls there are… repercussions.”

     Sherlock found that he was far too tired to even attempt a snarky retort.  Instead he goes straight for the question. 

     “And Morality?  Is he also a nexus or some such?”  The look on Mycroft’s faces assures him that he notices the lack.  

     “What he is, is a conversation far too long and complex for this current time and place.  Sufficient to say, he is one with whom I share a profound disagreement. This conflict has now exceeded… acceptable bounds… and here we find ourselves.”  

     Mycroft’s expression is determinedly bland but Sherlock is adept at reading the slight discomfort, even a trace of fear? or perhaps regret? in his words.  Neither are words that he is used to associating with his pompous, CCTV controlling, nearly omniscient, brother. That, more than anything else that has happened, gives Sherlock pause.  Makes him consider his next words carefully.

     “And what I saw?  Fever dreams of the damned?  Perhaps some desperate attempt of my brain to understand it’s own mortality?”

     This is all leading to something, he can feel it niggling at the back of his brain.  Waiting for the information it needed to snap the puzzle pieces into place. The umbrella taps against one perfectly tailored pant leg once, twice, then stills.    

     “Ah yes, the divine stubbornness of mortals.”

     “Excuse me?”  He takes it back, Mycroft is still an overbearing, stupid, prat with a weakness for fudge.

     The prat continuous as if there had been no interruption, “They create all this; destiny, gods, reality, whatever you wish to call it. They create us and then they turn around and fight. Fingers bloody and broken from clawing at the coffin lid.”

     Sherlock feels his patience slipping.  This can’t be. It’s as simple as that, this is impossible.  There are too many things here that he is unable to explain, and under it all a steady tugging  _ pull  _ that keeps drawing his attention from the man sitting in front of him out towards… something.

     “Moriarty believes that if you take away their “gods,” their center, then mortals are no better than apes.  I take a rather more… optimistic view of the mater. (Mycroft, optimistic? personally Sherlock thorough there was a higher statistical likelihood of both heaven and Santa Claus being real.)  You saw them. You burn their hearts from them and still they march on… but it's not  _ their  _ hearts we're talking about is it?

     The tugging is getting stronger, it makes it hard to think.

     “Why did I see those things?  Why am I here?”

     Mycroft smiles, really smiles, and Sherlock thinks that it looks strange on his face.  His brother can talk with a vagrant on Green Street or meet the Queen herself with the same polite half smirk but now his face relaxes into a gentle grin.

     “You are here to make a choice, brother mine.”

     “And what choice is that?”  (The pulling has become almost painful now.  A low rumbling pounds at the base of his skull.)

     “Whether you want to finish the story that has been written or perhaps, to try your hand at a bit of rebellion.”

     Mycroft’s words slid over Sherlock almost unheard, the pounding is too loud, too much.  Sherlock presses his eyes closed trying to block out the pain. Faintly, as if from somewhere far away he a voice cuts through the din. 

     “Please Sherlock, one more miracle.”

 

     The ground is cold under under his ribs but there are warm, steady, fingers at his throat - feeling for a pulse no doubt.  He can feel his pulse ebb and flow, carrying blood to from his heart to his brain and back again. His heart beats steadily in his chest.  The fingers press at him again, feeling at his carotid artery then to his eyelids, searching for any response. 

     Sherlock opens his eyes.

     “Oh thank god!  Sherlock! God, Sherlock you, god, you fell.”

     His lips feel stiff, like they resent their continued service.  Sherlock coughs and forces the words past them anyway.

     “Yes, I fell, quite astute Watson.  Perhaps next you will have some great thoughts on the topic of gravity.”

     He thinks that if he weren’t literally bleeding on the ground right then John would probably have hit him.  As it is the other man just smiles fondly down at him.   It’s foolish fancy but Sherlock can’t quite banish the image of a silken web flowing around the edges of that smile.      

(5 years later)

     The murder was fascinating, the hunt was thrilling, and the chase full of theatrics and adrenaline, but at the end it was still not enough because a mother was dead and a child was alone.

     Sherlock wanted to hurt, he wanted to punch the brick wall until his hand was bloody then scratch the itch that was always under his skin.  The seductive call of oblivion, of more, of better. Even rising from the sodding  _ dead  _ didn’t cure one of an addiction it seemed.  He looked over to John, expecting to see the same on the shorter man’s face.  Cases with children were always the worse. Instead he looked up and felt something catch in his stomach, a rolling lurch of emotions that he had been stoically ignoring for some time now.

     John was holding the little girl in his arms and cooing at her.  It was such an incongruous picture - John, the Browning in his coat pocket and blood only just wiped from his hands, holding an infant in his arms.  It should look wrong, shouldn’t fit, but there was a strange soft look on his face, and somehow it just was  _ right _ .  

     It was so very  _ John _ .  Soldier and doctor.  Healer and defender. His hands that go steady with adrenaline rather than shake, but that also had the softness to hold a child gently.  Sherlock found that he never wanted to look away. John looked up and caught Sherlock’s gaze.

     “Her name is Rosamund, ‘Lock.  Rosamund! It sounds like a name your lot would come up with.”  His voice is warm and rich.

     Sherlock felt the air stutter in his lungs.  Why was his brain getting stuck on that casual nickname, why wouldn't it connect properly to his toung?  Finally he managed to get out, “I’m sure she will go by Rosy or some such when she’s older.”

     The strange, fond, smile still played on John’s lips.  “But she needs a middle name too.”

     There is a long pause, and Sherlock  _ knows  _ that there is something that he is missing.  That there is a deeper message in the words if only he was smart enough (brave enough) to understand it.  

     “Sherlock is a girl's name you know” John almost sounds shy as he says it.  Oh.  And then, just like five years before, his mind is perfectly clear.  “And Watson would make an excellent last name.  Perhaps even Watson-Holmes.”

     Sherlock nods, a shaky almost-panicked thing, but John’s smile is incandescent.

     John reaches a hand out, an invitation.  A beginning and an end all rolled into one.

     The edge is right there.  

     Only this time there is no echoing gunshot, no icy panic, or grim determination.  There is only John. John reaching out and grasping his hand, and the warmth of it spreading from his arm and spiraling out to envelop him whole.

     The game is over.

     There is no choice.

     Maybe there never was.

     Sherlock tucks his his fingers into John’s outstretched hand and steps forward.

     This time his eyes never leave John’s face all the way down.


End file.
